


The Shape

by birdsoup



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Getting Back Together, Investigation, Jones Family Tragedies (various), Lovers to Strangers to Friends to Enemies, Murder Mystery, Name Change (just Jughead switching it up), Post-High School, and a hint of horror, ghost story, grave desecration, ok that sounds dire but there's romance in there somewhere i promise, perhaps a whiff of the Supernatural, police procedural (minus all correct procedure), yeah that's how that trope goes right?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsoup/pseuds/birdsoup
Summary: After burying his past and running from Riverdale, the man who used to be Jughead is back.He has a contract to fulfill, a story to tell, and a ghost to find. Unless it finds him first.





	The Shape

**Author's Note:**

> warning for discussion of sibling loss and allusions to the loss of a parent

Forsythe Pen collapses against a splintering rest stop picnic table and pats himself down for a cigarette pack.

First he finds his battered phone, vibrating with an incoming call. He drops it on the table without answering and keeps looking for the smokes. Shaking hands fumble the lighter. It's dim early evening and it's been a long drive.

The rest stop is poised between the bare highway and the dense foliage of upstate New York. Ghostly birch, sugar maple and aromatic pine crowd close to the parking lot as if to peer into his lone car. Greasy food smells leak from the gas station's decayed mart. The nicotine puts off his appetite.  
That, and the cold dread piercing his belly.

His phone rings again, buzzing against the wood like a trapped wasp. Its screen glows with a name, Grimley. His editor. The latest of many missed calls.  
He could run from it all night but the man will keep calling. He takes a grounding drag of the cigarette and picks up.  
"Hey, Grim. Sorry I missed you. I've been driving all—"

"Pen, I got bad news," Grimley interrupts. He goes by Sythe to friends now but, though they've worked together for years, Grimley has never really been a friend.

"I know," Sythe sighs a cloud of smoke. "You never call with anything nice to say."

"Don't joke around, kid," he snaps with his typical agita. "Perry Pike had an accident. The cops found him this morning. I'm sorry, Pen."

A long silent beat. Grimley breathes heavily against the receiver. Hundreds of miles from his office desk and Sythe still smells the chalky Tums ever-present in Grim's mouth.  
He rubs a hand through his mop of hair and, for the first time in years, almost misses his hat.

"Oh," he says.

Perry Pike, his literary agent, but so much more. The man who, nine years ago, took a chance on a lost and wild eighteen-year-old. Gave him a couch to sleep on in a big lonely city and a temp job as his office assistant. Fed him on the art of suspense, mentored him on how to catch a reader and a murderer at the same time. Together, they wrestled his disaster of a manuscript into a best selling novel; the rest is history.

Perry Pike, who became like a father. Who bartered that first miraculous book deal and with whom he trusted his life story as well as his career. Perry Pike, who sent him on this drive north to face his past again. Whose idea this next damn book had been.

"Oh," he repeats, unsure what else he should say. "Well, is he okay?" he hazards.

"Not even a little bit," Grimley grunts. "Listen, don't worry about this deal. We'll smooth everything out when you get back, but for now someone from the midwest office is coming down to fill in. Keep business moving."  
Sythe tries not to snort into the phone. That's Grim, always thinking about the business.

Pike had known, novel writing has nothing to do with business. Not the Sythe Pen writing method. His process is ugly. Fast and bloody and never the story the publisher wanted in the first draft. Pike had patience.

Grimley, a fixture of the publishing house, never liked Pike's lenience for the clients he brought in. And Pike didn't seem to like Grimley's abrasive hustle, his ruthless criticisms. Sythe often felt caught between them, handing in pages and watching their aggressive back-and-forths over his head. The corner of publishing he's landed in feels vicious sometimes.

If he didn't know better, Sythe might wonder if Grimley killed Pike himself.

"Your contract is still on, so try not to let this distract you," he continues. "We've been planning this trip for months, Pen. Make the most of it and we can hit the deadlines and still make your tour dates. Bring us something good for this book."

Us; he means the publishing house. They requested this research trip when Pike declared it was time for the long-awaited sequel to Sythe's first novel.

They're sending him back to try to recover some sense of authenticity to that first story. He's churned out five successful but unrelated novels in the meantime. Now the house has doubts that the sequel they demanded years ago will benefit his career after all. Pike believed there's more of that story to tell, that it would be his best work yet.  
For his own reasons, Sythe has doubts too. Namely that the story almost killed him last time.

"Yeah. Yes. I will," Sythe says carefully. "But, uh. Is there going to be a service? Shouldn't I—"

"I'll get you an address to send flowers," Grimley barks. "I mean it, Pen. No distractions."

"But will there be an investigation?" He had wanted to ask right away but bit it back. The storyteller in him is hungry for blood. He itches to know what they've found about Pike's death.

"Kid, why would you ask that? It was an accident, not one of your thrillers."

"Right. Of course." He's faintly disappointed. Pike always had details ready, the gory and mundane, whenever he called with interesting news. Not anymore. The hollow spot in Sythe's chest aches.  
The rest of him feels only the knife of dread.

He crushes out the remains of his cigarette, looks past the cracked asphalt lot to where the highway dives back into the beckoning woods. He still has some driving left.

"I better get back on the road, Grim. Thank you for, uh, letting me know."

It seems not even Pike's death can save him from returning to Riverdale.

* * *

_Forsythia 'Jellybean' Jones, 12, died April 3rd as the result of a bicycle accident involving one motor vehicle and the Sweetwater River._   
_ Beloved daughter of Sheriff FP Jones, of Riverdale, and Gladys Jones. Cherished sister of Jughead Jones._   
_ Jellybean was looking forward to beginning seventh grade; she excelled at art, mathematics, and computer science, and was a precocious mechanic. She will be deeply missed._   
_ Funeral service to be held Saturday, 10 am. Burial will take place at Elm Grove Cemetery._

* * *

"How do you feel?" Betty matches his slow pace as they walk away from a burial that his senses barely attended.

"Fine. A little unreal," he says. Truthfully, it's more like _unmade_. Taken apart, and now he's waiting, breath bated. What will he be, now that he's not brother or protector?  
"Thank you," he adds. "For helping so much." She was responsible, he's hazily sure, for most of the funeral arrangements.

"You don't have to thank me, Jug. You're my family." She catches his hand before he can flinch away from such a painful word. "So was she."

There Betty remains, a pen-calloused hand holding his tight. Then, a skin-hot weight pressed to his back on stifling nights.  
Nothing lasts, though. Spring dies early in a heat wave; soon they sleep with a fan blowing muggy air through the space between them.

Sometimes, lying in their bed, or on the couch, or slumped against the kitchen island, he's too weak to turn his head and look at her. And he's too weak to argue with the certainty in his head that, even if he does look, she'll be facing away. Preoccupied with her search for Alice.

Sometimes, he finds the strength to drag his gaze across the bedroom. It's looking a little barren. Betty's wardrobe has gradually moved to the Lodge apartment in a series of girls' nights — ostensibly scheduled to keep Veronica less lonely. That little voice in his head points out, it might also be that Betty doesn't feel at home here. Her family almost died in this house and his family—  
She's saving on gas, at least, car-pooling to school with Veronica and sometimes Archie.

He tries at first but ultimately doesn't attend the last weeks of junior year. It was too frustrating, the shift. Abrupt silences blooming around him in the halls, and hushed chatter closing the gap behind as he passed. He finds new respect for Cheryl; after Jason, her grades never even dipped. For him, every end-of-semester study packet turns to Greek in his hands.  
So he stops going. There's no consequence. The interim principal doesn't seem to notice. No warning phone calls, no truancy officers.

Getting away from that scene turns out to be such a relief that he starts avoiding friends too. Simple for the friendships where he did the chasing. Harder for the people who came to him to fix their problems. He keeps his phone off and stops charging it. Betty plugs it in every chance she gets. He hides it.

"What if your mom calls?" she asks gently, watching him from the window seat as he sprawls on the floor.  
_So what if she does?_ he thinks.

Despite the messages he's left, Gladys remains gone. How can he explain to Betty that he can't look for his mother the way she wants, needs, to look for hers? It wouldn't mean the right thing unless Gladys found her own way back.

He should help with the search for Alice, though. Isn't he Betty's partner in everything? Her family can be restored. Her sister isn't dead.

Yet every time she sits down with a long call list, he stays very still and quiet. And every time she packs an overnight bag for a weekend excursion on the Farm's trail, he kisses her 'good luck' and says nothing more. She never asks for more. Not even an explanation, as if she sees he can hardly explain it to himself.  
Maybe it's that he's ashamed of his own family, ashamed of FP.

The moment FP stepped from the sheriff car onto the scene where the body washed up, he shattered into a thousand glass bottle shards. He stumbled away from the police tape, the car, the whole job, and checked into the nearest bar. There, he put himself back together just enough to fill up with drink. He drinks away every promise he ever made to his son.

Past are the days when he could find the strength to help his wasted father to a bed. FP looks small and uncomfortable, sleeping spilled between couch and floor. Jughead turns off all the lights and leaves him to it.  
Through the wall of the bedroom, adorned still in Betty's keepsakes, he can hear Jellybean's record player all night long. Each time he gets up to check, the room next door is silent.

"Maybe you're hearing the neighbors," Betty texts back from Veronica's. But she can't talk long; she has an early start, driving out to the municipal archives. The search for a lead on the Farm takes her further and further away.

Jughead stops going home. Instead he walks, lethargic and insomniac, down dark suburban streets. By the end of the block there's sticky child fingers tugging on his hand to turn back. The house Gladys bought looms behind, empty. At his side, when he turns to look, there's no one there.

In daylight, he hides from headaches in the cool shadows of the library stacks. His sister's giggle floats through the shelves like the sound of fluttering pages. It chases him playfully when he flees the building, back into miserable summer heat.

Her pursuit pushes him to the edge of his mind. Everything goes distant, like he's behind the humid glass of a diner window, blinded with neon and steam. Him, inside with a blank page, and everything else out on the other side.

The last night he saw Jellybean was in a booth at Pop's. If he sits here and waits long enough, a miracle will happen. In fiction, sometimes the dead come back.

So, for an interminable elastic amount of time, he sits and waits and writes.

The surface of the river that summer stays smooth and blank.

No living little girls crawl forth. No car-bashed bicycles spin wheels backward and reverse out of the swift current, rewinding into wholeness to a careful stop in front of the house with the red door. Jellybean doesn't join him in the diner. There is no miracle.

His grief ferments into fury but he holds it tight, pours it carefully out into chapters. The half finished story about a town fills up with retribution until he's empty. As calm as the river surface.

By the middle of summer, he's written all he can. He struggled to find the right person to kill to balance the scales; tried them all before settling and calling it done. He can't look at the manuscript anymore without wanting to throw it in the water after her. He sends it downstream to the city, a message in a bottle, a plea.  
He's certain if he doesn't leave Riverdale, he'll drown. That's the Jones way. In the river, in alcohol, in his own black thoughts.

The miracle occurs, finally, with autumn's arrival. There's people in the city who want to talk to him about the book, about signing a deal.

"I'll meet you in person," he says on the phone, tries to make his voice low and mature. Like an adult, not a kid running away from home. "By the end of the week." A handful of days away. His bag has been packed but there's something else he needs to do.

It feels urgent that he change his name. Not the part he shares with Jellybean, the one that evokes wild yellow flowers, wilted by end of spring. That one is for safe-keeping. But the made-up name, for a boy who made himself up.

Jughead used to play a game. He would sign his father's name on the car insurance, the phone bill, the taxes, all the papers that wrap up a life and keep it safe. And if the neat stack of envelopes he left on the kitchen table where he did his homework was gone in the morning, then he could pretend that he had a normal family. That he was a normal kid. Taking them to the mail box himself on his way to school meant he lost that round.

No need, now, to pretend he's not alone. He's signing for himself only. What he needs is something real to put on book jackets. Something new to sign, like fresh blood, on the miraculous contract — a deal for the manuscript and the promise for a sequel. Not Jughead and not Jones. The Joneses are only good for haunting each other and he's done. He wants out.

Instead, he spends his savings on a cemetery plot. The coffin is simple, plain pine. Plenty spacious for just a hat.

He smothers the part of him that clings to this place. Forces it to go limp and quiet and let go — of Betty who is searching for her ghosts instead of running from them, of FP who gave Jelly the bicycle, who enforced no curfew and never declared any streets out of bounds. He makes himself let go of everything and everyone he ever loved. He buries his heart and buys a bus ticket.

When he leaves Riverdale, Jughead Jones stays behind in an empty box.

* * *

Dusk lasts a long time. It flattens roadside shacks and billboards for camping and river-tubing into looming gray shapes.

When the day's light finally dies, Sythe chases the half moon up the interstate for one stark moment before forest night slithers over his car. Trees swallow the sky. From there, it's lamp-less state roads, racing through tight wooded hills. Straight, straight, straight, then bunching and coiling with sudden turns.

He's spat out in front of the Chock'lit Shoppe, a tiny spark of excitement worming through his anxiety. That glimpse of the moon reminded him of a Pop Tate cherry pie, one with a flaky golden crust, and he has a craving. He's nervous of being noticed but it's well past dinner and dessert hours. Maybe there'll be a friendly face. Better yet, maybe he can just slip in and out, un-witnessed.

Soothing neon buzz saturates him as he steps inside. For one moment he feels no dread, no deadline pressure, no guilt for running from his past. The inside of the diner stretches wide and polished, a friendly chrome grin.  
Then the door falls shut behind him, the little bell rings, and Pop shuffles out of his kitchen.

"Jughead Jones," Pop announces to the almost empty diner. "Long time no see." It sounds more like a warning than a greeting. And just like that, the dread falls back upon him.

"I go by Forsythe now, Pop." He approaches the counter stiffly. Some new nostalgic hit he hasn't caught yet jangles from the jukebox, discordant with his heavy steps.

"Right. Forsythe Pen." Pop nods, stony faced. "You're a big writer now, aren't you? I thought you'd forgot about us here."

The dread-wound in Sythe's belly is beginning to churn with shame. He stepped in here in two pieces, torn between wanting a secret arrival and a prodigal welcome. This is neither. This is worse.

_I should've checked in once or twice, asked how you were,_ he thinks of saying. But it sticks in his throat and he can't look at the man who fed him better than his own parents during his hardest years. He glances away.  
The scattering of late-night patrons is mostly old timers, minding their own lonely business. Only one familiar face peers up from a booth on the far side.

Kevin Keller is watching him over the top of a strawberry milkshake. His charming face and wide boyish eyes haven't changed much.  
A chill slides up his back. Feeling suddenly out of place, he blanks Kevin's open stare without even a nod. No need to rush into an awkward reunion.

Over Sythe's shoulder, the booth tucked in the corner is also as it was, years ago. Jellybean's favorite spot.  
She liked to sit, back to the wall, watching the bustle of the kitchen and the whole diner. He hated it, felt exposed and vulnerable, facing only her and the framed decorations.

"At this rate, Pop's gonna replace my 'best customer' photo on the wall with one of you," he had teased her that last time, tapping his coffee spoon against the side of the sundae he bought her. Triple scoop, banana, extra whip, two sauces, four cherries and sprinkles.  
She insisted on getting her own and, through the eyes of his memory, she's busy proving she can handle it. She licks her own spoon clean and uses it to knock his away.

They're celebrating her official enrollment for the next school year. He'll do anything he can to encourage her, whether that's blowing his spare cash on an ice cream mountain or sitting in a seat that makes his skin scrawl.

He would have done anything. But sometimes that's not how the story goes.

He blinks the scene away and turns back to the counter. Two perfect gold-brown and jewel-red slices of cherry pie remain in the display stand, as remote to him as the moon. Pop sees him eyeing them.

"What'll you have, son?" he asks, at last softening with the care he used to show.

Sythe looks at Pop, his creased kind eyes, hands spread flat on the clean counter of his domain. Nothing about this man or this place has changed in a decade. If there's any difference here, it must be in himself. Sythe's stomach twists.

"A coffee, Pop. To go."

"That's all?"

The handful of patrons feel too close at his back. Every gleaming metal surface is a knife to his eyes, felt against his skin. Kevin's stare pricks at him. He needs to leave.  
"Guess I'm not so hungry tonight. But I'll be in town for a little while." He accepts the hot cup. "You'll have your number one customer back soon, Pop. I promise," he lies.

When he exits, the memory of Jellybean stays inside, faint behind the glowing diner windows. But his sick dread follows him out, bigger than before.

Back in his little car he takes it slow, windows rolled down to get the cool night air against his flushed face.

Weeks ago, before his fatal accident, Pike had helped Sythe rent a condo space in town. A Southside address. He remembers the streets pretty well.  
Now, squinting at the map on his phone in the dark car, the thought nags that he's taken a wrong turn. This brutalist alien landscape is not the Southside he grew up in.

Colorless streetlights glance off sharp edges of unfamiliar buildings. There's a surface feeling here, perceptible even through the night gloom. Iridescent oil scum, slick over new blacktop. Fresh plastic litter caught and rattling against taut fence chains.

He scans the building fronts, tires crunching over broken glass on the smooth paved road. Here, he recalls, there was a strip that hosted a pizzeria and maybe a pawn shop. And there, a laundromat and a bodega he frequented for snacks. He gazes up at the severe face of the bank that has replaced them, opaque leering black glass. Beside it appears to be a very smug-looking cafe.

He pictures FP skulking here, slipping quick past his rear-view mirror, or cutting a shadow through the headlights. What would his dad think of how his stomping grounds have transformed? Sythe's not sure how his old self — him from before he left, from before he wanted to leave — might feel about these changes. Disgust, probably. Fury, and resentment, and a complicated kind of pain.  
Sythe, now, only thinks that he won't find his story in these parts. He's here to recapture something, revisit the past. This Southside is a new place, all signs of history gentrified out. He might as well have stayed in the outer boroughs, rather than let Pike bully him back here.

The only thing that's the same as before is the need in the nerves of his hands; to wrap his fingers around a knife hidden in his pocket, if he's going to be walking around here. Where is that knife? Did he bring it?

He finds the condo and parks in the lot behind, amidst hulking suvs. This building would tower over what used to be here. All these new buildings sort of tower.

In the lobby entrance, tile floor echoes. It's lit by one stuttering ceiling panel and furnished with a plastic palm and the shadowy bulk of an arm chair. Cheerful. He's not sure why he expected to find the ghost of Hiram waiting to greet him.

He wanders deeper. A corridor leads to a little square of light spilled from an open office door. Inside he finds a bland person, tilted back in a desk chair against a bank of security monitors, absorbed in their phone.

"You lost?" they ask without looking up.

Sythe gets a set of keys and, by their directions, finds his apartment on the first floor. Pre-furnished in the same style as the lobby. Bare of personality and spare with comforts. In the main room there's a couch on one wall and a couple chairs at a dining table by a window. The lights flicker with the same audible florescent whine as in the lobby. Cheap wiring in the building. He turns them off. Parks his bag in the middle of the room and drops with a groan onto the couch. The little cup of Pop's coffee is lukewarm; he leaves it on the end table.

He's in the habit of writing at night. Not likely this evening. Instead he lets his mind wander, rubbing at gritty eyes, arms heavy from long hours driving.

When he left Riverdale, Sythe didn't tell FP about the manuscript, or where he'd be and how to find him. Each time he had a chance to say it, he would look into those red drunk eyes and find no reason to speak.  
But FP either figured it out himself or he got help. Six months after Sythe left for the city, FP cleaned himself up sober, got in the old pickup and drove down after him. He didn't ask if Sythe had ever wanted to see him again.

When FP went missing shortly thereafter, Riverdale's acting sheriff, Henderson, got hold of Sythe's new number and called a few times. To report and inquire if he'd had any contact.

"Did you drag Sweetwater yet?" Sythe responded. Then he'd asked her to stop calling. Miraculously, she did.

He sleeps and smells the river.

Dreaming, his vision blurs like through moving water. He's watching someone. A tall lanky man in a broad-shouldered jacket. A flash of shining eyes or maybe a switchblade. The man stumbles closer, a gasp or a hiss in his throat, a voice poised on lips. But the dream breaks and scatters like droplets.

Sythe wakes in the dark, back stiff, still wearing his shoes and yesterday's clothes. He drags a hand over his face, wearier than when he sat down. Then he stills.

There's someone in the room with him. Sitting at the table. Their breath is measured and almost silent. The seat creaks, a boot taps on the tile. Sythe swallows, dry as the grave, and slowly turns.

But the seats are empty silhouettes against the window. He didn't draw the blinds before he sank into the couch and now the glass glows with dawn's luminescent blue. He stares at the strange color for a long moment, parsing dream boundaries.  
How long does it take to wake all the way up? He hasn't dreamed of ghosts in a long time, hasn't had reason to believe in ghosts for years.

It's not quite sunrise and he's only slept a couple hours, but he's restless for a smoke and hungry for material to write. The sooner he hunts down this story, the sooner he can leave this town without incident.  
He sets out on foot, weathered field notebook in hand.

Southside is foreign but it's still got rats in the gutters and the metallic smell of cold wet pavement; a comfort that some things don't change. But today he's exploring further north.

He crosses the train track threshold. Store fronts and blocky apartment constructions give way to shabby townhouses, then neatly spaced suburban homes. These tree-lined streets are familiar from the sweeter half of his childhood. Fireflies and popsicles, racing Archie and Betty on his borrowed bike.

While the Southside was torn down and built monstrously anew, this Northside neighborhood is untouched. The same, but faded into an exhausted version of itself. Yards are unkempt, facades want paint. The empty streets are cracked with potholes.

No one's out yet. No dog walkers or joggers, no early commuters trying to beat traffic. Not even the paper delivery.  
Sythe is anxious to find people today who are amenable to questioning. He wants to corner someone civilian, mild-mannered, find out what this town has been like on the surface, all these years that he's missed.

No one is out, but he feels watched. Eyes on his back. A velvet fog, permeated with that blue glow shifting now toward green, damps all visibility and sound. His footsteps are mute. So too would be anyone following him.

The novel wants to be a ghost story, he can tell. He wishes it wouldn't.  
Let the past stay buried. Let there be something better here now, good enough to thrill the publishing house into relaxing their gruesome expectations. He'd rather write any other story than what happened when he left.

Sidewalks and family homes draw him west, to Riverdale's edge. He can't bring himself to walk on Elm Street but there are other paths to the water.  
Didn't he dream about the river at this spot? It smells the same; algae, mud, sickly road run-off. He squints down the bank. No tall figure stumbles out of the mist.

Sythe hops the Riverside Drive's guard rail and climbs down to the rocks tumbled together at the waterline. He picks a big smooth one and reclines to light a cigarette. This close to the water, the fog is dense and soft, as fleeting against his cheek as a cold palm.

He's never hung around Sweetwater this far north. In his youth, the rocks along the Drive's south end were more like crumbled concrete, ripe for graffiti tags, rough on summer sunbathers. A riverbed soaked in industrial waste. Clogged with garbage drifts.

Up here, suburbs abut nature. The view across the river is mist-blotted, but he imagines pristine forest fills the other side. Everything is polished clean by the turbulence hidden beneath a glossed surface.  
Not far upstream from here, he's pretty sure, is what came to be called Blossom Crossing. Where Cheryl once claimed to lose her brother. The rapids where the boat was dashed.

Did he ever tell Jellybean that the current is stronger upstream? Could that night have gone differently if he made sure she knew? But she always liked to see things for herself.

Behind him, the sun finally crests the trees and houses, swirling milkshake pink into the green-gray sky. The reflection on the water looks wounded, red wrapped in white.  
He tosses his spent cigarette, breaks up the mirror. A hundred little wounds now. And that's when he sees it — a fresh sparkle of blue and red lights, caught on the surface.

He clambers quickly back up to the road where, thirty yards south, silent police lights strobe. A bevy of cop cars huddle around a wreck.

Sythe lied to himself. Last night at the diner, pretending he was there for a meal. And this morning, hunting for inspiration in the wrong empty places. In truth there's only one person, one story, he's been seeking. And here it is, in the middle of this action.

A glimpse of unmistakable blonde.

**Author's Note:**

> readers, hello.
> 
> is this fic ready for the world? maybe not. i am a slow writer but i've raced to get the beginning out before the season starts. the seeds for this fic started at the s2 finale and grew to fully plotted and outlined by mid s3.
> 
> does ras stand at the foot of my bed every night, laughing and snatching my story elements out from under me? stealing my thunder, my film refs, my coffins, my hat-based plot devices? he sure does.
> 
> in return, i helped myself to a title from halloween (1978) and i dare ras to write an episode on the exact stephen king novel driving my themes.


End file.
